


a new bunch of flowers i'll have to arrange

by singagainsoon



Series: Entomologist AU [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputee Hermann Gottlieb, Awkward Romance, Cis Character, Domestic Boyfriends, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Emotional Constipation, Emotionally Repressed, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Newt and Hermann Need To Use Their Words, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Trans Character, Trans Newton Geiszler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 08:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16322900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singagainsoon/pseuds/singagainsoon
Summary: Hermann teeters on the crumbling precipice above a long drop into the inevitable unknown. He is hurtling quickly towards some distant and indeterminate point in his future, clinging helplessly to Newton’s shoulders as he rockets them through The Next Logical Steps in their relationship one after the other, far faster than Hermann had been prepared for (which is to say, not at all). It terrifies him.





	1. Chapter 1

Newton comes sweeping grandly into Hermann’s office, a brown paper bag and a tall, disposable coffee cup clutched in his hand like the most precious of treasure. Hermann’s red pen freezes mid-correction, poised elegantly in his long fingers. He is still in his leather jacket, smiling bright and soppy, and Hermann wonders idly if Newton has been by his own office at all yet. He knows to shut Hermann’s door behind him now, at least. Baby steps, as they say. 

Hermann watches him from over the rim of his glasses, perched precariously on the slope of his nose; he feels the edge of his mouth quirk into a half-smile. He is the furthest thing from a morning person, especially in the autumn when it is still dark when he comes to work and he would much rather be curled in his armchair, but Newton is all but beaming, and Hermann’s heart squeezes beneath his cardigan. He wants nothing more than to press him to his chest, bundle him into his lap and hold him there for the remainder of the day. 

Hermann sets his pen down. Newton places his offerings gingerly on the neat, clean surface of Hermann’s desk, careful not to disturb his overfull pencil cup for the second time that week. He rocks back on his heels, comes leaning forward once more on the balls of his feet. His boots squeak faintly.

“Is that…?” Hermann trails off lightly, questioning fingers hovering in the air halfway to the cup. There is a little cardboard sleeve wrapped snugly around its middle, “Herman” written in black sharpie across it. He purses his lips at the misspelling but grabs for the cup anyway, inhaling the steam that comes wafting from the hole in the lid. He allows himself a smile - a real one, wide and a little crooked and reserved almost exclusively for the bespectacled eyes of Dr. Newton Geiszler, PhD. (s). Hermann silently curses his glaring soft spot for both seasonal drinks and the biologist that brings them.

“Pumpkin spice,” Newton confirms, still grinning. He motions vaguely in the direction of the bag. His black nail polish is chipping. Hermann wonders if Newton will allow him to try painting them for him one day. He’ll say it’s to keep Newton from getting excess polish on his fingers as he seems prone to doing. “And an everything bagel,  _ lightly _ toasted with extra cream cheese.”

He waits expectantly for Hermann to open the bag and inspect the bagel. It is, in fact, lightly toasted, and the cream cheese peeks out from the edges just as it ought to. There is a little pink post-it stuck to the inside of the bag, likely emblazoned with a tiny drawing and a  _ see u after work? _ . (To this, the answer is always a resounding “yes”.) Hermann will read it later, tuck it discreetly into the top drawer of his desk along with the others. He takes a hesitant sip of the coffee. It blooms in his throat like some strange flower. “Oh- oh,  _ schatzi, _ you didn’t have to go to the trouble. This is so thoughtful.”

“Herm, it’s no problem, seriously. You just… you work so hard, y’know, and I know you don’t really get the chance to have lunch or, like, breakfast, and- ah, shit, I’m just rambling. I’m- yeah.” His soft, stubbled face is bright pink. Hermann wishes he could take a picture to keep folded close to his heart forever. Newton hovers in the space between Hermann’s desk and his door as though he is uncertain whether or not to leave; he looks like a student, hesitant and lost among the meticulously framed star charts that line the walls. He reaches a decision and plops unceremoniously into the seat reserved usually for students who have come skulking in to protest a grade or request a deadline extension. 

He is early. Ordinarily, he brings Hermann something for lunch in a Tupperware container, asks if he can eat with him like Hermann would ever think of refusing his company. Newton always asks. Even now, five months into Whatever This Is, Newton asks if he can eat lunch with him in that same sweet, comfortable tone. He moves his leg as though he’s going to prop his boot on Hermann's desk, but Hermann gives him his very best narrowed-eyes-deep-frown look of disapproval, and he thinks better of it and crosses his legs instead. 

Hermann extracts the bagel from its bag and hands the half bearing less cream cheese to Newton. Before he can protest, Hermann shakes his head. “I know just as well as you do that you’ve likely not eaten today, either. Those vile energy drinks you like so much are  _ not _ breakfast, Newton.”

Newt takes a bite and chews thoughtfully. There is a palpable uncertainty lingering in the air. Hermann can feel it as sure as the words that he knows are sticking to the tip of Newton’s tongue. At least he does not speak with his mouth full.

“So, I was thinking.”

_ Oh, God, here it comes. _ Hermann’s first thought is that Newton wants to break things off, that somehow, Hermann has been less than satisfactory as a partner or that there is someone else- someone smarter and more handsome and more outgoing. What will he do now with the little framed photo of them that occupies his desk? His stomach lurches unpleasantly, and he debates tucking his breakfast back into its bag. Hermann glances up from his half of the bagel. “A special occasion,” he says dryly.

Newton rolls his eyes. “Oh, like  _ you’d _ know.”

“As a matter of fact, I  _ would _ know, considering I’m the one who-”

“ _ Alright _ , alright, I didn’t wanna start a whole big thing.”   
  
“For once,” Hermann sniffs.

“Herm.”

“Oh, fine, Newton. What is it that you were thinking?”   
  
Newton finishes the last of his half of the bagel and wipes the crumbs on his thigh, ignoring the less-than-pleased curl of Hermann’s thin upper lip, the little screech building in the back of Hermann’s throat. “Herm, honey, light of my life-”

“Just get on with it- ah, please.” He is blushing in spite of himself.

“We’ve been, uh, boyfriends for a while and I’ve never been to your place.”

_ Boyfriends.  _ They’re boyfriends. Newton is his boyfriend. He is  _ Newton’s _ boyfriend, and the dear man has probably told anyone within earshot as much. Hermann hides his smile behind another sip of his coffee and pushes down the guilt at thinking Newton ever would lack discretion enough to dump him at work.

"Oh."

“I don't want to, like, push you or anything. If you have some weird, dark secret hiding in your basement or whatever, that’s totally fine, but maybe it’s something we should get out of the way now, don’t you think?”

“I assure you, Newton, I haven’t the slightest dark secret.”

“I was kinda hoping you’d have, like, some wild secret lab-”

“What sort of scientist are you under the impression that I am?” Hermann’s lips stretch into a wide smile. 

"A mad one."

It is only fair, he supposes, that Newton come to his apartment. He has seen Newton’s chaotic organization, his charmingly lived-in one bedroom, the magnets that all but obscure the actual front of his well-stocked refrigerator, his hulking pet iguana that had startled him the first time he caught sight of it snoozing like some horrible nightmare beneath the coffee table.

The space suits his partner, though, like his apartment is some bizarre performance art piece, an extension of his very self. Hermann supposes, all in all, that the same could be said for his own. He would be lying through gritted teeth to say that he had never envision Newton slung haphazardly over his couch or making a souffle at his seldom-used kitchen counter. He's not even sure Newton knows how to make a souffle, but the thought is nice enough that he has entertained it on more than one occasion (usually whilst staring despondently into his coffee before work in the morning). Newt is always wearing an apron in his daydreams, twirling about the apartment and singing to himself. It is halfway realistic, at least.

Hermann slides off his glasses, pretends to straighten the papers in front of him for the sole purpose of giving his trembling hands something to do. He swallows.

"I can't promise you a secret laboratory, but I can promise you company over dinner, at least, and ah- a place to sleep, if you're interested. Unless that's too forward of me."

Hermann thinks he may just die right there at his desk until Newt laughs. His eyes sparkle behind his glasses, mirth rolling off of him in waves that crash at the foot of Hermann's ancient walnut desk. "That sounds great, Herm. See you at lunch?"

"Yes, darling, I'll see you for lunch." 

_ If I can make it through any of my morning classes _ _first,_ he thinks, watching the well-loved sway of Newton's hips in his obscenely tight pants as he leaves the room.

 


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they reach Hermann’s apartment building, his hands are trembling again. It is a miracle he had managed to maintain the speed limit on the way over, had avoided swerving into a telephone pole or a car in the neighboring lane. He drops his keys in the hallway no less than three times attempting to unlock his door, and when Newton moves to help him he swats his hands away, flustered.

“I’m fine, Newton. I’m fine.”

"Are you-"

" _Yes_ , I'm sure. Please, let me do this."

Hermann’s front door at last creaks open, and Alan Purring is sitting patiently on the little welcome mat in all his hairless glory, cast in the light from the hall. Hermann toes off his brogues and greets the cat with a soft, “Hello, dear.” Alan Purring squints indifferently past Hermann’s broad, sweatered shoulder at Newton, scrutinizing him with his one good eye. Hermann leans down, smiling, to scratch the cat’s chin. Alan Purring tilts his head and makes a rumbling noise. He is gangly, skinny, built not-quite-right - like Hermann.

“Oh, fuck, hey there, dude. I didn’t know you had a cat, Herm! Wow, he’s uh-”

“He’s a Peterbald. I adopted him last year. I saw his face, and- oh, well, I suppose you know how it is. I certainly wasn’t about to leave him there. We get along quite well, don’t we, darling? Yes, I think that we do.” Hermann has difficulty keeping the little swell of pride from his voice. Alan opens his mouth to yowl at them.

"He looks like raw chicken!"

Newt sounds positively delighted at the prospect, pointedly ignoring Hermann's scowl in his direction and Alan Purring's questioning stare.

“Newton, this is Alan Purring. Alan, Newton Geiszler.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard all kinds of stuff about me, huh? All kinds of dumb grumpy shit, like, 'Oh, that Dr. Geiszler just grinds my gears, but _God_ does he have a nice ass'.” Alan Purring does not deign to answer. Newton drops into a squat and holds his hand out, palm-up, in an offering of friendship. The cat sticks his little pink nose in the air and opts instead to arch his back and rub up against Hermann’s argyle socks, mindful of his cane. The little bell attached to Alan’s collar tinkles faintly. “So, uh, what’s for dinner?”

“He’s already eaten, dear thing. You’d never know it with the way he tends to carry on, though.”

“I meant us.”

“Oh! Oh, well, I- ah, yes. I haven’t been to the store this week, but I’m not much of a cook anyway. How does Chinese sound?”

"Considering the one thing you ever made me was burnt to hell, Chinese sounds _fantastic_ ," Newt says, grinning cheekily and plopping himself onto the sofa.

 

* * *

 

Newton stretches his legs out in front of him and wiggles his toes. His left sock hangs halfway off his foot (the other sock is unaccounted for, likely wedged into his boot where it has sat by the front door since his arrival) and, endearingly, his feet don’t touch the other end of the sofa. He is quiet now, subdued in the way that Newton tends to be after he's had a good, long argument. He had, in fact, argued with Hermann over their dinner about the proper way to hold chopsticks. Hermann had indulged him, bickered right back.

Hermann cards his long fingers through Newton’s messy hair, folding him to fit into the shape of his chest with his other arm. He adjusts easily, allows Hermann to shift him before pulling Hermann’s knitted blanket from the back of the sofa and tugging it over his lap and Hermann’s legs. The unexpected ease with which he has slipped into their quiet, casual intimacy never ceases to amaze Hermann. During the day, they tend to argue, to bicker, to get swept into heated, whirlwind debates in the halls until their colleagues scold them for it; but in the evenings, they shed their differences like coats, like exoskeletons.

A _House Hunters_ rerun plays softly in the background, casting them in the harsh glow of couples with unreasonably large budgets and even more unreasonable demands. The remnants of their take out containers sit rapidly growing cold on the coffee table.

“You’re asking a lot here, pal,” Newton mutters at the television. The man - unhearing, unbothered - details his need to be near the beach and have a bedroom with an ocean view. Hermann makes a low, agreeing sound in the way of a response (though he, himself, thinks he might also like a bedroom with a view of the sea) and rubs the pads of his fingers along Newton’s scalp, relishing in the way he leans into his touch. Newton drops his hand to massage idly at Hermann’s knee, just above where his skin ends and his prosthetic begins. Perhaps it is the way he looks in the light, the comfortable weight of him pressing against Hermann’s weary bones that at long last cracks him wide open. He does not mean to say, “I love you,” but it’s been building steadily all evening, pressure in a dormant volcano, and it tumbles unbidden from his dry lips.

Newton shifts in his arms and tips his head to one side to blink up at him in the space where the cozy lamplight and the illumination from the television intersect like a Venn diagram. “Huh?”

“I love you,” Hermann repeats, a bit more sure, swallowing thickly. His adam’s apple bobs against the side of Newton’s head. “Admittedly, I have for some time. I suppose I shouldn’t have been so hesitant to say as much, but I thought it might be too soon and I’m still rather unaccustomed to-”

“I love you, Herm,” Newton says, muffled somewhere beneath Hermann’s chin. He sounds as though he’s smiling. He had been expecting, at best, a gentle rejection; perhaps a _That’s sweet, but-_

Hermann’s fingers pause mid stroke, poised tensely in the messy thicket of Newton’s hair. Newton must feel the sudden thrum and pulse of his heart through his cardigan, the soft cotton of his plain blue shirt. There is no possible way he could miss it when it pounds so loudly in Hermann’s ears.

“Say it again,” Newton says, breathy.

“I love you, Newton- ah, Newt.”

He sits up then, leaning heavily on the arm of the couch, and winds his sturdy arms around Hermann’s shoulders. One of his hands settles on the back of Hermann’s neck, a warm spot blooming beneath his palm. Newton is grinning, happier-looking than Hermann has ever seen him; his eyes glisten, whether with mischief or perhaps tears, Hermann is not sure. Heart threatening to vibrate out of his chest, Hermann rubs the pad of his thumb along Newt’s stubble-scratchy cheek. If his hand was not clammy or sweating, he would have cradled Newton’s face in his palm instead.

Hermann loves him the way laughter has a tendency to bubble in his throat.

It is some ancient, secret gravity beyond any reasonable explanation that pulls Newton atop Hermann’s lap, their lips together, their bodies flush. They have kissed before, certainly; they have kissed countless times (though Hermann had made a valiant effort to keep track) and dreamed of it even more, but it is this particular kiss, in all its tripping, stuttering awkwardness, that Hermann thinks he loves the best. When they pull apart, panting lightly, he runs his thumb over the little raised scars where Newton had once entertained a pair of snakebites in college.

“I love you.”

The words are freeing, a perceived weight lifted at long last from his tongue. It feels _right_ , correct in a way that is absolutely unprecedented. Newton makes quick work of managing to unbutton Hermann’s slacks and wriggles his hand between them to press his hand against the small soft spot in the center of Hermann’s stomach where metaphorical butterflies beat their figurative wings.

Hermann wrestles Newton’s t-shirt over his head and flings it thoughtlessly to the ground, taking a blessed moment to trail his fingertips down Newt’s chest, over insects and faint purpling scars and a wildly beating heart. Newt’s thick, warm hand slides down to palm gently at Hermann’s stiffening cock through his plain cotton briefs. Hermann groans and shifts beneath him, pushing his hips into Newton’s grasp.

“Oh- Oh, Newt.” Newton’s thumb presses lightly over the head of Hermann’s prick, and he jerks sharply. “I love you.”

“I love you- Oh, yes, honey, I know. It’s okay, Herm, sweetie.”

He is being vaguely patronizing, too sweet when Hermann knows he is valiantly biting back the tendency to be bratty, but Hermann has a difficult time minding too much when his words drip thick and cloying. Newton extracts him clumsily from his underwear and leans away to push his own down his thighs before settling firmly back atop Hermann’s lap. He is wet already, slick beneath the experimental prod of the fingers he dips between his legs. Hermann’s wandering hands skate down the curve of Newton’s back to his hips, his ass, his thighs. He’d entertained fantasies, certainly, about what his colleague might look like beneath his clothes, but no vague imagination could have lived up to the real, vibrant thing. Even now, months and months after the initial pleasant shock, it astounds him.

Newton ruts against him, kiss-sore mouth stuck open in a sweet little “o”. He fumbles, wraps his hand around Hermann and gives a few short strokes, pleased moans spilling from his lips as though the sensations marching steadily up Hermann’s prick are his own. Newt shifts to rub himself against Hermann, to rock his hips just enough to create much-needed friction between them. His knees dig into the sofa cushions on either side of Hermann. He throbs against Hermann’s hot, flushing cock, under his long, careful fingers.

“ _Hermann-_ ”

“Let’s not - _oh_ \- make a mess of my sofa, _liebling_.”

“Can you blame me for wanting that in me? Your big dick, your big _hands_ , those fingers.”

Hermann rolls his eyes. “You sound you belong in a low-budget porn- _Ah_. That’s lovely, dearest.”

Newton circles his thumb just beneath the flushed head of Hermann’s cock and sends little sparks shooting in all directions under his skin. It is Hermann’s turn to sit stupid with pleasure and the heaviness of wanting. Newt smirks, the dimpled corner of his mouth smug.

“You watch a lot of bad porn?”

It is all Hermann can do to keep from screeching indignantly, though he feels his posture growing ever more pliant under Newton’s skilled hands. “O-of course not!”

“Yeah, okay, likely story, butter buns. Tell me what you like- is it those cheesy old ones from, like, the seventies? The ones with- _ah_ , like a plot?” Newt shifts, rubs Hermann against his slick folds. “Like the ones where the fuckin’ pizza delivery dude rails the lady getting the pizza? And there’s a plot, sure, but it’s like, you’re obviously not watching for that. Or are you more of a feminist porn kind of guy?”

“I _like_ when you use your mouth for kissing instead of talking,” Hermann grumbles, tilting his head to mouth at the stubble dotting Newt’s jaw. Newt groans, fidgets with the front of Hermann’s wrinkling shirt and nudges his hips against him.

“Okay, okay, can I sit on this now?”

“I don’t know, _can_ you?”

Newton heaves a long-suffering sigh, the sound of it vibrating against Hermann’s wandering lips. “ _May_ I please sit on your giant dick?”

“Much better.” He nips lightly at the soft skin just above Newton’s clavicle.

“You better have put some condoms in the drawer like I said to last time, because I don’t wanna have to dig my wallet out of my jeans.”

Hermann leans over without displacing Newton from his lap to pry the side table drawer open and produce a silver wrapper. “No strange flavors, I’m afraid. If you’d like those, you’re going to have to purchase them in your free time,” he teases, a smile playing at the upwards stretch of his lips.

Newton leans in again to kiss him, to pinch one of his stiff nipples between the fingers of his free hand. The strangled little keen that bubbles from Hermann’s throat is foreign even to Hermann’s own ears, and he cannot keep from giggling into Newt’s mouth. Newton’s hearty laugh pinkens his cheeks, shakes his soft belly. Hermann imagines this is what love feels like, to be treasured and adored though his hands still fumble and sometimes his kisses are clumsy and there are embarrassing occasions when he cannot help it and comes too soon. A lump in his throat tells Hermann that he does not deserve this sweetness, that he has done nothing to earn it. But Newton leans his forehead against Hermann, tries to kiss him through their breathless laughter, and Hermann thinks he might cry.

Huddled on the sofa, groaning into Newton’s eager kisses, “love” seems less like a concept and more of a tangible thing, an option for Hermann’s life.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermann leans heavily on the door frame and finds he can’t suppress his smile. Newton is almost lost among the heaps of blankets and pillows adorning Hermann’s bed; were it not for his tattoos poking from beneath the covers, his arms slung over a stray pillow hugged tight to his chest, Hermann might not have been able to distinguish his small form from the comforter tossed over him. Alan Purring is settled daintily on Hermann’s side of the bed, spindly legs tucked up under his lanky body, far enough from Newton to avoid the odd involuntary kick of his outstretched leg. Newton yawns and shifts, curling into himself. Something protective swells in his chest like a balloon about to burst.

He had intended, of course, to wake Newton and offer him a late night snack or to wrap him in his robe and enjoy a cup of hot cocoa with him, but the scene makes his heart ache sweetly; and he decides instead to slip beneath the blankets and take Newton gingerly into his arms. Alan Purring scurries out of the way to the foot of the bed, and Hermann yanks the covers up over their combined shape.

Newton is a light sleeper, though Hermann feels little remorse for disturbing him, and he stirs to sling his leg over the sharp point of Hermann’s hip. The fabric of his novelty dinosaur-print boxers brushes Hermann’s thigh, and Hermann laments not being able to feel the coarse tickle of Newton’s dark leg hairs against the smooth shape of his prosthesis. Newt makes a low noise in the back of his throat, something small and vaguely startled but content in nature. His soft figure radiates warmth, and Hermann loves him.

He is certain of this more so than he has been of anything in his life.

“Move in with me,” Newton mumbles, unprompted. Hermann’s heart skips a beat then kicks into anxious overdrive to make up for it. Newton’s breath is warm and sleepy and not the most pleasant against Hermann’s chin. Hermann wonders if he knows exactly what it is that he’s just said. Hermann’s mouth drops open, gaping like a hooked fish, floundering before he finds his voice.

“That- I, ah, that is- I mean… Are you certain you’re quite awake, darling?”

“Yeah, obviously. You’re the one that woke me up.”

“Don’t you think that perhaps it might be a bit soon-”

“No.”

Newton’s hand finds the stubbly back of Hermann’s undercut where it is the shortest. Even his touch, the gentle rub of his fingers, feels insistent. “‘No’?”

“We’ve known each other for ten years, Herm, did you forget about that?” Newton disentangles himself from Hermann’s grasp to sit upright in bed. Hermann’s eyes travel the length of his tattoos, absently counting eyes and legs and antennae until his gaze falls to the soft bit of inked stomach that sits in a pouch above the waistband of his boxers where the insects begin to disappear beneath the elastic. It would be nice, he thinks, to wake up beside Newton, to fall asleep against his body, to share meals and lives. It would be _more_ than nice.

“Of course I’ve not forgotten about it.”

“Then move in with me.”

It is no small thing to ask, no minor undertaking, but Hermann would certainly be lying if he said he’d never thought about it. Of course he had thought about it. Of course he had considered a future with Newton. He swallows thickly, feels his jaw work the way it does when he is searching for the words he needs. Newton fans out his fingers to place his hand atop Hermann’s where it is splayed on his thigh. His fingers are shorter than Hermann’s, thick and sturdy and littered with tiny raised, white scars where Hermann’s are long and too-thin and prominent-knuckled. Moving in with Newton would mean further bearing his heart to him, widening the amount of space he occupies, knees touching beneath the dining room table, someone to spend the longest days of his life with.

Moving in with Newton would mean hoping that Alan Purring would get along with Ghidorah.

Hermann teeters on the crumbling precipice above a long drop into the inevitable unknown. He is hurtling quickly towards some distant and indeterminate point in his future, clinging helplessly to Newton’s shoulders as he rockets them through The Next Logical Steps in their relationship one after the other, far faster than Hermann had been prepared for (which is to say, not at all). It terrifies him.

But Newt has seen the worst of him, his red-faced, near-spitting fits of irritation; he has known Hermann for ten years, after all. Newton has seen him vulnerable and naked and unwell and still wants to live with him.

The thought of willingly flinging himself into something he can’t map out the progression of, something with so many changing variables, something where the end result is as much in someone else’s hands as it is his own. Ten years feels all at once too long to put up with a person and simultaneously nothing in comparison with what remains of their lives.

Newt is watching him, patient, expectant, kind. 

“Alright.”

Hermann knows in the pit of his stomach that he is making the right decision.

**Author's Note:**

> this got kinda sorta long so i split it into 2 bits! this has definitely been an Exercise In Trying To Get Better At Believable, In-Character Dialogue.
> 
> as always, you can find me on twit @kaijubf


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